


The Bittle Prince Diaries

by itsybitsybitty



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, Duke Jack Zimmermann, Eric's father is dead, M/M, Mentions of sick parent, Prince Eric Bittle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsybitsybitty/pseuds/itsybitsybitty
Summary: Eric Phelps, a shy American college freshman at Samwell University, never knew his father. He left he and his mother a comfortable living on their ranch where he grew up on Georgian sunshine, tuition to the university where their parents met, and the throne of a European nation: Genovia. Receiving tutelage from his late father's friend and his son, Duke Jack Zimmermann, Eric learns to open his heart to a new country, a new future, and perhaps even new love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Disney Film "The Princess Diaries" (2001) - hoping that this will be a cute "little" fic!   
> Please note that much of the dialogue for certain scenes is taken directly from "The Princess Diaries" script. This is done out of love and respect for authenticity.   
> Comments, kudos, and shares are always welcome  
> Please enjoy!

Was it weird to say that Eric had never felt at home at home? Sure, he had grown up on the Phelps Ranch since he could remember; scraping his knees trying to climb trees, gardening in the summer heat, and making the all important transition from mud pies to actual pies in his mother’s rustic and spacious country kitchen. The days were long and hot and the silence cherished when he stepped off the dusty school bus every day for twelve years.

Hearing the crunch of the gravel road beneath his mother’s tires, Eric craned his neck around, rolling down the window to his mother’s truck as he bade her stop with a touch to her shoulder. Passing through the Phelps ranch sign that led onto their property, Eric felt his throat close.

This house held so many memories as he grew up under the warm Georgia sun, raised on his family’s orchard of peach trees, the sound of cicadas lulling him to sleep through his open bedroom window, and the familiar distant rumble of passing trains.

This place had turned him into the man he was now. Well, it at least had a hand in it.

Eric Phelps, at a whopping 5’6 ( _and a half_!) looked like he was grown from the ground. His strawberry blond hair was often spotted in the kitchen or soaking in the sun in his gardening overalls, earning his fair share of freckles. His large, chocolate brown eyes took in the world around him and he was eager to see more of that world than what he had on the front porch of the ranch.

Turning back to the road that lay ahead of them, Eric nodded, his goodbyes already said. Even if he still hadn’t found the strength within him to say goodbye to the person who really mattered. “Can you tell me again about how Dad picked this place?”

His mother, blonde hair pulled back in a messy updo, her well-worn pink flannel pushed to her elbows, and nails cut short to better work with dough and other bakes for the church lunches, was the most amazing woman in the world. Closest second was Beyonce, which Suzanne Phelps was in her own right in Madison, Georgia.

The truck continued down their long gravel drive, heading out to the main road that would take them to I-20 and out of Georgia. If Eric had anything to say about it, this would be the last time he would call Georgia anything close to home. The memories here ran deep, deeper than Eric wanted to dwell on.

“Well, your father and I drove out here in the nineties, you know, us children of the seventies. The house was toppled to pieces from a tornado, which he thought was a good sign because a tornado, he thought, never strikes twice. Even though the barn was rotten and weeds everywhere, he took one look at the peach trees and told me if peaches could still grow in such a mess, so could a family,” Suzanne sighed, her window rolled down, the wind teasing at her hair like it was her late husband running his fingers through her hair. “So we built this place with our own two hands and you were born and…” Her breath hitched and Eric quickly changed the subject.

“I heard that Edith is finally going to lease that shop on main street--”

His mother’s voice was fast and hard, “No. No, I can, I can talk about it. He wouldn’t want me so quivering and blubbering that I can’t even talk about him. He was too special for that. Oh Lord, that man.” That man had been the reason for his mother’s heartache for the past eighteen years. And Eric nearly hated him for it.  Although his father and mother had carved out a new life for one another on Georgia soil, they divorced with a baby on his Mama’s hip and more than enough child support payments to cover for their life on a barely profitable peach farm. Apparently he went overseas, according to his mother, but he still wasn’t sold on the fact that could be a pretty lie to keep Eric from looking for him.

In the past, and still a little bit to this day, Eric thought of the man who had sired him and divorced his mother as soulless. They could have made it work, they had a new baby, for goodness sakes! Money, even the nice cards and checks that he got on his birthday, were not a substitute for a loving father that Eric always felt deprived of.

But those days for bashing his absent father in his adolescence ended abruptly last year when he died. To Eric’s knowledge, the money kept coming, probably from his will, and though the nice presents like the Faberge merry go round safely nestled in his suitcase alongside Senor Bun, had stopped, there at last came the greatest gift of all.

A full ride to the college where his mother and father had met and a matching apartment lease. A chance to get away from the people he had grown up with that treated him like an outsider, treated him like a pariah for something he couldn’t change that had been inside of him since he was in second grade.

His mother had always accepted Eric with open arms. And now Eric would always be left to wonder about his father. Would he have done the same? Something had drawn him to Georgia, to the country. He didn’t dare assume it was just the peaches and the quiet. Would his father have accepted this part of him? Would a man who divorced a new mother come to love a son that was different?

“I don’t know why you never got married again, Mama,” Eric said instead, his voice light.

She shrugged, a small smile on her lips as she watched the road change from gravel to poorly maintained country road, chipped away by tractors and Amish alike. “Well…He was my one, you know? I mean, a part of me makes me wish that we could have made it work but, but the love we could share together was worth it. You are worth it. I look at you and I see more of him every day. Really, I do,” she added quickly when she saw his hesitance.

The man that was biologically his father was tall, muscle bound, and though he was smiling in the faded scrapbooks, looked intimidating, like the yelling high school football coach than an ally father. The only picture they had together was on the day he was born, the man’s face ruddy and had been crying. Eric liked to think it was that picture alone, packed with his merry-go-round that kept the young man from hating him.

Eric, in contrast, was short, barely muscled thanks to hockey practice, and fast. You had to be fast to get away from some of the good ol’ boys that hung out in the student parking lot after school, swapping chew and scuffing their steel-toed boots.

Suzanne smiled, “I know he’s gone, but his memory isn’t forgotten. He was a great man, and I like to think he would have liked to have met you in college. Eighteen. My boy is eighteen... “ She sighed, new tears coming to her eyes. “Now remember what you learned about STDs.”

“Oh no, Mama,” Eric winced, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh yes, Eric,” she countered, “I was your age once in the eighties and you forget I went to Samwell, their motto is ‘Drink deeply’, you know.”

Eric laughed but couldn’t look her direction, “Yes, I know, but please, can we not talk about it? That is the _last_ thing on my mind. The very _last_ thing.”

Suzanne turned onto I-20 and settled in for the long drive, “At least you won’t get anyone pregnant.”

“Mama, please!"

* * *

 

The apartment wouldn’t be necessary for Eric, not really, later into his college career. A perk of knowing where he was going, he submitted some of his hockey videos to Samwell’s hockey athletic department, and made the hockey team. Which meant The Haus.

Capital letters, oddly Germanic name, The Haus was where the hockey players of Samwell University congregated, drank, fornicated, and (supposedly) studied. The grand master of ceremonies on Welcome Day for freshmen, and the young man who opened the door for Eric and his mother in a _towel_ was Shitty. And not in personality, but literally, his name was Shitty Knight. Or at least that’s what he insisted the Phelps family call him as he walked into the Haus.

Grasping onto the slipping towel around his waist, the upperclassmen led a shell shocked Eric through the Haus, its stench terrifying with health and safety hazards aplenty.

As Eric sat down on his bed, his mother and Shitty were at the door, confirming distances to the campus, food hall, and other nearby places. In particular she asked about the consulate.

The Genovian consulate.

“Oh sure, there are school tours every Saturday, it’s kinda cool that Samwell is so close to that. Awesome gardens, you should totally check it out, Mrs. P,” Shitty promised, still glistening from a shower. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.”

The young man went to close the door to find it stuck, stubbornly, he used both hands to yank it back to normal, his towel falling to the floor.

With an apology and a disappearing act, Suzanne turned back to her son, looking significantly less distraught than Eric felt. “Samwell has not changed much, sweetpea.”

“Is it too late to go back to--”

“No, no, c’mon, sit on the bed,” Suzanne guided her son back onto the bed from where he stood, wringing his hands. She reached into a box and pulled out his father’s merry-go-round and Senor Bun, starting the chiming tune on the Faberge music box and pressing the bunny into his arms. “I know this seems scary, very scary and new and different, but don’t forget how far you’ve come and how far you have to go. You’re a strong young man, Eric. You’ve been through things and have always come out on the other side. And when you do, you have taught me so much about grace under pressure and kindness for kindness sake.” She wrapped an arm around her son, rocking him slightly.  

“They’re just like the others.”

Seventh grade Eric V.S. the high school football team. He’d never stood a chance as he was thrust kicking and screaming into a cold, dark, packed utility closet outside the football weightlifting complex. Years later it still terrified him. The thought of tight spaces, of hulking, imposing figures.

A part of him wondered if that contributed to his mistrust and worry with his father.

“I’m so proud of the man you’ve become. And I know your father is, too,” Suzanne soothed. Speak of the devil. “If this doesn’t work out, if you don’t feel safe and supported, you come straight back home. First class,” she tried to tease.

“Like the time I lost Senor Bun at Disney World?”

“Exactly.”

“But I was seven. I’m eighteen now. I’m an adult,” Eric protested. “Well, I’m getting there.”

“And you won’t be alone during this, I promise.”

* * *

 

After saying their goodbyes, Suzanne promised that she would be around for the week in case “those Yankees try to pull some stuff”. But of all the upperclassmen she trusted with her little Dicky, yes, an embarrassing nickname to end them all, she trusted Mr. Crappy above all others.

“Mr. Crappy?” Eric asked, laughing as he deep cleaned Betsy the oven in the kitchen.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Crappy, I won’t call him any other thing, you’d do well to mind your P’s and Q’s around him. Captain of the hockey team,” Suzanne promised.

There was a pause before she finally spoke up, with an old voice, worried but solemn, “A friend of the family would like to see you while you’re there at Samwell.”

“Oh. Dad’s side of the family?”

“Yep.”

It wasn’t a secret that some of Dad’s family and friends had tried to break his Mama and him up, though she denied it.

“Okay.”

“At the Genovian consulate.”

Just like that, so many more questions about his dad were answered. Though Suzanne had told him that his father had been from Genovia and had moved back, he had thought it was like a grand fairy tale. A beautiful lie about a man who had passed, instead of the truth with a gambling addiction, a warrant, and three girlfriends living in Tulsa.

“They want to have tea.”

Blinking, Eric leaned out of the oven to take the phone and pull it off speaker phone, “Tea? This person came all the way from Europe to have tea? I take it they don’t mean sweet tea out on the porch.”

“‘Fraid not.”

Considering this, Eric sighed. His mother encouraged him from the other side of the phone, “C’mon, sweetpea. I raised you to be a gentleman, right?”

Eric smiled into the phone, sitting on the kitchen floor, over a thousand miles from home, “Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

 

Standing outside the gates of the Genovian consulate, Eric took a deep breath. It was a mansion, basically. A sprawling mansion with a large green front yard, flowering trees, and what looked like a regular garden of Eden in the back. If Genovia was anything like their consulate, Eric might have to schedule spring break there. He turned to the intercom button, straightening his backpack, his hockey duffel thrown over his shoulder.

“School tours are on Saturday, young man.” An annoyed voice came over the speakers, the grand gate securely closed.

Eric pressed the intercom button, polite, as always. “I’m here to meet with a family friend.”

“Name?”

“Jack Zimmermann?”

There was a beat of silence before a startled, “Oh. Please come through the front door.” The gates slid open and Eric was sure to throw a quick thank you to the gentleman who let him in.

Walking inside the gate, along the cobblestoned drive, his shoe caught a rough edge as he approached the front door, stumbling and managing to catch his balance as his hockey duffel went flying onto the nice, green grass in the front yard.

“ _Get off the grass!_ _Descendre de l’herbe! Scendere dall'erba!_ ” Came automated screeches from hidden speakers as he hurried to get the duffel away from the motion sensors.

Oh Lord, this was a fancy place.

* * *

 

Ushered into a reception area as he stepped inside, Eric could feel his jaw drop as he was surrounded by art, beautiful sculptures and a lovely array of flowers. Absolutely fancy.

He and his mama had had money, Eric knew that but he was so hesitant in asking for it or finding opportunities to spend it, that his most lavish expense had been ice skating coaching and the trips to to regionals. Once those dreams floundered, they funneled money into a nearby hockey league, no checking, for Eric. His money was best spent on the ice.

“Welcome, Mr. Phelps, we’ve been expecting you.” Two suave men in tails appeared, inclining their heads before one patted down his backpack, the other bending down to inspect the duffel, opening it.

“Oh, careful, I’ve got my skates in there and I don’t remember if I packed ‘em up nice,” Eric warned.

With a curt smirk, the man assured, “I’m quite safe.”

As swiftly as the men had appeared to pat down Eric, they disappeared, though his duffel bag had vanished with the men. Eric didn’t blame them but he hoped he could get it back before he had practice tomorrow.

Speaking frantically in his little earpiece, a young man appeared, his red hair looked as panicked as he was. He smoothed it down, straightening his blazer and fixing his tie that had gone astray. It wasn’t until he got closer that Eric realized that he had definitely _not_ been speaking English. Besides his hurried nature, the young man looked meticulous.  

He gave a little huff and clicked his heels together, a clipboard under his arm. “Hello, Eric. I’m William Poindexter from the Genovian Attache Corps But you can call me Dex if that’s too long.” He offered his hand, which Eric shook.  

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. You’ve got pears in your flowers,” Eric supplied unhelpfully, in search of something to say.

It was true, hidden amongst the marble statues and original paintings were vases of fresh, fragrant flowers that made the gardener in Eric envious. But hidden in the bunches were pears, plump and looking mighty tasty. He had almost been tempted to snatch one when those gentlemen had looked in his bags.

Dex let out a surprised laugh, by his appearance alone that didn’t seem possible and Eric warmed to him immediately, “Genovian pears. We’re famous for them. We hide them everywhere, we might sneak a few in your hockey bag.”

“Please do!” Eric chuckled in return. So his father had run away to the land of pears and intense wealth. Nice, dad.

Dex gestured to large French doors leading into the gardens and Eric felt his heart race, itching to get out into that dirt. The Phelps family didn’t have much to be proud of, nothing besides his skating, their peaches, and their flower gardens.

Instead of making their way into the flower beds, Eric was ushered to tea being served by no less than four attendants, white aprons ties around their waists, their hands working quickly to set everything just so (one even straightened a sugar dish?). “Now, if you’ll sit down, he’ll be with you in a moment.”

A tall man wearing a tailored navy suit appeared from a garden path, buttoning one of the buttons on his jacket. The attendants and Dex straightened immediately, the sweet smile he wore gone. “I don’t need a moment, I’m here.”

 _This_ was Jack Zimmermann? Eric had been expecting someone who was ancient, not basically in their mid-twenties. He was also unfairly handsome to boot. Dark hair, light blue eyes, with a chiseled, strong jaw. The man was barely contained in that suit, that way it clung nicely to his muscles. This had to have been the most attractive man Eric had ever set eyes on.

 _Heel_ , _Phelps_ , he told himself, mindful of how gawking at a perfect stranger just might look. They weren’t even remotely in the same league, Eric wasn’t entirely sure if they even played the same game.

Another attractive man followed behind, a clear ear piece, shades, and dark clothing screamed body guard. As he went to stand with the other attendants, he lowered his aviators and winked at… Had he winked at Dex?

“Eric, I’m so glad you could come,” the man’s voice was deep and liting, dripping in an unidentifiable accent. French? It must have been. “You certainly look…American.”

Standing there in his short athletic shorts, a Samwell shirt, and slip-on sandals, Eric looked down at himself. “And you look…starched.”

The bodyguard let out a guffaw, stopping when he was whacked by one of Dex’s clipboards.

And weird start out of the gate, okay.

Jack blinked, as though surprised that Eric could dish it as well as he could. Extending his hand to shake, Eric smiled easily up at the man, “But um, thank you. I’ve never been to the consulate here, before. I just moved to town. This place is beautiful.”

“Yes, it’s always kept ready for the arrival of royalty, even,” Jack said. “Let’s retire for tea.” He had not taken Eric’s hand, almost as though he were confused by it.

Ah yes, the tea everyone was so concerned about. Eric hoped it blew his slides off, the way everyone insisted that he meet this man over tea. He could almost see why as they took their seats under the large sun umbrella at a wrought iron pair of chairs and full service laying out before them. Eric took it back, there would be no way he could afford a Genovian spring break.

“So, my mother tells me you’re a family friend,” Eric didn’t beat around the bush, pouring some black tea before the attendants could, who stood just nearby, as though prepared to help him sip it. This consulate was really friendly. He swirled his third packet of sugar into the black tea before it was finally tooth-achingly sweet enough. Jack and the workers looked less than impressed.

“So, you wanted to talk, so, er, shoot.”

Jack sipped his tea thoughtfully, sweetened by only one teaspoon of maple syrup. At that, he set his cup down in its saucer, blinking, “I’m sorry, shoot?”

The man’s accent wasn’t too thick, he must have had good English lessons, but the little lilt to his words didn’t make it less endearing and different.

Eric quickly added, “Sorry, I mean, you know, uh, go?”

Nodding thoughtfully, Jack reached for something that an attendant handed him, “Well, before I ‘shoot’, I have something I’d like to give you.”

A red book? On the front is an ornate metal crest, but he’s also handed a small black jewelry box. Inside is a ring with the same crest. “Oh… thank you.”

“It was your father’s ring, it’s the Genovian crest, here,” Jack reached across the table, and slipped the ring onto Eric’s finger, his hand big and steady, “And press it into the lock…”

The book, now a journal, snapped under the press, although Eric was trying to ignore the touch of the man’s fingers. They never shook like his did when he grew nervous, especially holding the hand of a handsome man. Jack finally withdrew his hand and Eric could finally think for himself!

“Thank you. This was wonderful meeting you—”

Jack looked surprised and spoke quickly, “Eric, there’s more.”

Eric had lifted himself a few inches up from his seat, “Oh. I see.” He slowly sat back down.

Taking a deep breath, Jack took in the man who sat across from him. Under his gaze, Eric felt so small, but also like he was someone worth looking at. Which had been the exact opposite of his invisible existence back in high school. An existence he anticipated would continue at Samwell.

“Eric, have you ever heard of Richard Christof Philippe Gerard Bittle?

Odd question out of left field but Eric shook his head, “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t say I have.” He twisted the ring at his right ring finger, unsure where this was going.

“He was the Crown Prince of Genovia.”

Eric smiled kindly, “I take it you like history.”

Jack seemed surprised but nodded, “Well, yes, but… There is a purpose to this history lesson.”

“Being?”

With a deep breath, Jack answered, “Richard Eric Phillippe Gerard Bittle was your father.”

Eric snorted before covering his face, “Excuse me. Sorry, that was a good joke.”

Jack’s brow furrowed, “Why would you believe this is a joke?” Lord, that man for all his beauty, he didn’t know how to loosen up.

Looking around the ornate gardens Dexthe attache corps, the attendants in their aprons, the bodyguard, and snorted once more. That was a good one, and he told the stuffy man just as much. “Well, it’s funny. Because that would mean I’m—”

“Exactly, Eric, you’re not just Eric Phelps from Georgia. You’re truly Eric Richard Bittle the Second, Prince of Genovia,” Jack inclined his head gently, a patient smile finally coming to his face.

The world felt like a whirl of colors as Eric blanked, his mind trying desperately to find anything, anything that would disprove what he said. His father – the one who left them, there was no way that he was running a small European country. No way in the least. But his tuition, the nice gifts, the foreign stamps that came with his letters… They didn’t even go to his funeral, too far his mother had said as she lay in bed for a week, reappearing miraculously better after painting and helping him weed the garden.

People were talking to him; a hand was on his shoulder. The very same hand that had slipped a royal ring on his finger. The crest of his father.

He waved him off, shaking his head as he buried his face in his hands, hiding his freckled face from this man who did _not_ know him well enough to see him cry.

“Well, nevertheless, you are the Prince. And I,” the man cleared his throat, offering him a cloth napkin, the crest embroidered in gold on its corner. Eric snatched it out of his hand, dipping it in a pointless glass of water and wetting his face down with it.

Yeah, look at the country bumpkin with the farmer’s tan falling to pieces.

Clearing his throat again, the man just kept talking, about himself no less! “And I am Duke Jack Laurent Zimmermann. My father is Grand Duke Robert… Our fathers were very close friends, as are our mothers. But-but…” Did he stutter?

Looking up finally from his napkin, Eric looked across the table to find no one sitting there. Blinking, his face embarrassingly red, he startled when he found the duke at last.

Kneeling beside him on one knee. “It is my hope that together we could arrange for something more.”

And then there was a little blue box in his hand he was opening.


	2. Chapter 2

“Shut up.”

There was a beat of silence before Dex appeared at Jack’s side who was frozen in shock, still kneeling on the ground. “Pardon me, my lord, but in America, sometimes this means ‘Oh my gosh’ or ‘Gee whizz’—”

Jack turned to Dex, looking relieved, “Oh I understand, thank you.”

Eric glared at the kneeling prince or duke or whatever, “Excuse me? You don’t understand one thing about me. Put that thing away!” He pointed at the little blue box still resting in the man’s hand. When he didn’t move fast enough, Eric threw his cloth napkin at his hand, startling from his stillness.  

On auto pilot, Jack put the box back in his suit pocket, his mouth hung open in shock, “Forgive me, Your Highness, I’d hadn’t…”

“What did you just call me?” Eric snapped.

Dex now backed away, clinging to his clipboard in shock.

Jack grew a backbone and straightened, standing, as Eric sat, still processing, “I called you Your Highness, which is what you are. Royalty in my home of Genovia.”

“Why on Earth would I be picked to be prince?”

With a small sigh, Jack seemed to be calling forth his patience as he settled in a chair beside Eric’s. “Since your father died, you are the natural heir to the throne. It’s the law of Genovia.”

“You take it.”

Jack smirked without mirth, “As much as I would love to rule the land I’ve grown up in, loved, and studied my entire life, my father, the Grand Duke has been ruling in _your_ stead until you take the throne and rule. Your father dictated this before he died.”

“Rule? I, oh my lands, oh my—I’m still an undecided major!” Eric cried out, standing now to start pacing, his fingers running rampant through his hair and down his face. “How… how on Earth am I supposed to be able to rule? I just graduated high school?”

“Firstly, we would wait until you graduated from university. Second, do stop rubbing your face so, have some decorum. And finally, might I suggest a major of merit to ruling a country and leading a life in Genovia?”

Unable to stop himself, Eric bounced back on the balls of his feet like he were squaring up in a ring, “ _You!_ ” He pointed at him, surprised when one of the attendants gasped in shock. “You have no right to harp on me about decorum, you just proposed to a stranger!”

Jack sighed, “I—”

“Nope. Stop. Time out. Time. Out.” Eric put his hands up. “This is not about you. You weren’t just told you’re the ruler of a European nation. So that makes this conversation not about you!”

“I have never been spoken to so heinously in my life,” Jack blinked.

“Get used to Americans, pal! I have been trying to be invisible my whole life. I’m not going to let you or Prince Harry or King George or whoever those fruity royals tell me otherwise,” Eric walked over and thrust a finger into the man’s chest. “I refuse to move to, and rule, a country. And you know what else? I’m not marrying your ass!”

With all the power of a twister, Eric grabbed the journal and his backpack and took off down the gardens, back towards the consulate entrance.

It took until he stormed out and made his way to his mother’s hotel that he realized he left his hockey duffel.

 

* * *

 

“Well, that went,” Jack searched for a word as he dismissed the attendants, wringing his hands, “well.”

His bodyguard, Derek Nurse, smiled patiently. “Chill.”

Jack didn’t understand him sometimes.

Dex scribbled furiously on his clipboard, unafraid to give a little snip, “If we had rescheduled like we planned for your mother and father to return from the embassy—” “I know, Dex, I know. I just acted without thinking.”

The attache looked up, freezing. “What do you mean, acted without thinking?”

“When I proposed.”

Nurse’s hand fell on the duke’s shoulder, the son of the most powerful man in Genovia, “You didn’t plan that?”

Jack shook his head, sagging into his seat again, sipping from his tea.

“But you bought a ring.”

Jack shook his head, “Grandmere Clarisse’s.”

“Your grandmother’s ring? How do you just carry that around?” Nurse scoffed.

Jack groaned, decidedly an unroyal noise, “Look, I was going to offer my name at some point, right? That was part of the plan. He needs someone of Genovian blood and a little nobility to guide him in his rule. And our parents were all friends. But…”

But he had looked so wide eyed and handsome walking in to the gardens, the freckles on his nose looked soft to the touch, his smile genuine and warm. The ring had felt so heavy in his pocket. Like it was ready to weigh down his finger.

“I shouldn’t have acted impetuously.”

“Ah, I should have known. That impetuousness of yours rears its ugly head every once in a while.”

“Aww, I call that Fun Jack,” Nurse bumped his hip against Dex’s, messing up his writing on the clipboard. He narrowed his eyes and erased petulantly, trying again.

“As head of security,” Nurse continued, “I believe I can be of some assistance. With Eric attending college we’ll need some extra security detail. I can head this up, Your Grace. As chauffeur and, I guess, a babysitter.”

Jack nodded, “He needs time and protection. Make sure you reschedule this with my father and mother present, Dex.”

The man nodded as the duke walked away, scribbling on his clipboard. As he did so, Dex could feel his phone start to ring, “Get Nurse, get that for me, huh?”

Unclipping the phone from the man’s waist, Nurse got close and held up the phone to his ear, just a breath away. Dex’s eyes strayed, but he focused on the call. “Allô?”

“Hey, babe. I need to catch up on Brooklyn Nine-Nine and I can’t do it when you work so hard,” Nursey lifted his other hand, speaking into his own phone. “I feel like I have to call you just to talk to you. You ever feel that?”

Dex groaned but kept talking into his phone, taking it from Nurse, “We’re kind of doing important work here.”

“But so are Rosa and Captain Holt,” Nurse tried, his voice rising to tempt him. Dipping down his sunglasses, he looked into Dex’s gorgeous eyes.

Temporarily distracted, Dex couldn’t help but imagine falling for the handsome bodyguard, the pair of them finding time to watch some American television together in the late evenings. Himself working while the New Yorker wrote poetry.

And damn it if he wasn’t good at it. But he couldn’t let this bubble up to something more. No matter how much he wanted it. No matter unprofessional or _impetuous_ as it seemed.

Ending the call, Dex turned on his heel and walked away.

Sighing, Nurse tried to recount their conversation. He knew he should have just gave him another new poem.

Before he could turn to go find the Duke, he felt his phone buzz in his hand. Lifting it to his ear and turning back to the mouth of the garden path, the bodyguard spied the attaché standing there, a small smile on his lips, a blush on his cheeks. “Nine o’clock, _monsieur_.”

“ _Oui_.”

* * *

 

Eric looked down at the scrapbook pictures Suzanne showed him, her fingers trailing over the laughing faces of four young people whose lives were stretched out far in front of them. They lay under the covers in her hotel bed, close enough to the 24-hour local cookie delivery to get their homemade sugar cravings.

Eric’s go to when he was upset.

“This is Alicia, my best girl friend in college. I took so many painting classes and she took classical piano and performance. I don’t know why she didn’t minor in voice. Beautiful. And that’s Bob,” Suzanne snorted, not unlike her son did when he laughed, “We called him Bad Bob for reasons I don’t think I can share with my son. He and Richard both came over here from Genovia to get an ‘American education’. Which they did, in so many ways.”

“ _Mom_.” Eric moved to cover his ears with his hands.

“Oh, get your head outta the gutter!” His mother teased, biting into another turtle cookie. “They were so smart and here was Alicia and I, her looking like a model, tall and with the bluest eyes…” She sighed, “I felt like a little country bumpkin next to her, always covered in paint. All four of us just clicked and…”

She grew quiet, looking down at the pictures, “I’m so happy that Alicia and Robert stayed married, I remember seeing pictures of their baby boy. Who, I guess you met today.”

“And he proposed to me.”

His mother chuckled. _Chuckled_. “That sounds like Bob to a T. Impulsive, but his heart is in the right place.”

“The most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life proposing to me is not the craziest thing that’s happened today, Mama,” Eric took an aggressive bite of his snickerdoodle. “How in eighteen years did you never get around to telling me my biological dad was royalty?”

“We thought we were doing the right thing.”

“Right for who?”

His mother’s voice was stern, “You. If we secretly divorced, he would be able to find someone who could stay by his side and produce heirs and I could have you in Georgia where I grew up. It was a college romance, really. I was majoring in art and design, for goodness sake, I wasn’t preparing for being a consort.” Her voice raised, “I was so young. Could you see me giving up my home, what I loved to do, my passion in life for being plastic in all those photos and walking one step behind someone for the rest of my life? With the rules, regulations, waving, bowing and scraping? I was scared.”

Eric wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. “I was scared because I knew I’d grow to resent Richard for it and fall out of love with him.” He rocked her gently until her voice sounded less thick and filled with tears.

“After the divorce, we all discussed it. Your father would keep his distance so you could be a normal kid. We were going to tell you when you graduated high school, but when your father died in that accident, things changed, Eric. We wanted to protect you.”

Wrapped up in the warmth of his loving mother, Eric closed his eyes and let himself envision it. Meeting the father that he had always worried about. The man who, even in his mother’s fond pictures, looked huge and mustachioed, whose thoughts about having a gay son Eric was no closer to finding out. If he told his mom, he was sure she’d cover for him, how he’d love him no matter what.

That wasn’t a real answer.

“I get it. I’m still pissed that I had absolutely no warning for this and I was told by an 80 year old man who looks like a model. I wasn’t told by you,” Eric pointed out.

“I know, and if I had the chance, I would have taken it all back. I would have told you myself. Maybe surprised you when he was young and we were young and told you then,” Suzanne rubbed her face.

“Stop that, show some decorum,” Eric tried in his best Jack impersonation.

His mother giggled, “That was a little odd. Hey, there’s no pressure from me, okay? You have your impact to make on this world. No matter what that is, I’ll stand behind you, okay? Be that as a prince or as the best baker in Madison, Georgia.”

“No, that’s still you and Moomaw, Mama,” Eric smiled, knowing when he was being baited. She took his hand and held it tight, “Whatever you decide, I’ll be here.”

And Eric believed her. He was still filled with too many questions, but he knew there was at least some semblance of sanity when she was near.

 

Standing back outside the gate of the consulate at ten at night wasn’t at all what Eric wanted to be doing.

But he needed his duffel.

Pressing the button, a different voice from the first day answered, “ _It’s nice to see you again, Eric. Come right on in_.”

Avoiding the grass carefully, Eric could hear the crickets and cicadas riling up for the night, fireflies dancing around the gardens just behind the mansion. This place would never cease to amaze him with its beauty.

The door opened for him and standing there was the bodyguard from earlier. He stuck his hand out, “Hey, I’m Derek Nurse, head of security for Duke Jack Zimmermann. I’ve also been assigned to your detail.”

“Detail? No, I think you’re mistaken. I’ve just come to pick up a bag.”

The older man shrugged, tall and his muscles thick. Was he supposed to be wearing sunglasses inside this late at night?

“As the natural heir to the Genovian throne, you’re encouraged, maybe even required to be guarded. While Duke Jack remains here at the consulate, he’s given me full—”

“The bag is just through here…” Eric moved on ahead of him, brushing past his shoulder. “This is where they searched me…”

“Dude, chill. I’m just saying that—Wait what?” The earpiece that connected him to others in the consulate went off, tinny voices sounding in the dimly lit entry way.

Down the plush stairs leading into the foyer was none other than a pajamaed, recently showered, absolutely still dripping wet Duke Jack Zimmermann. “Eric.”

Oh lord have mercy.

All those indecent thoughts that had risen in him earlier in the day returned in full force as the man stood before him in naught but flannel pajama bottoms, slung low on his hips and a soft navy blue t-shirt that was becoming increasingly dark and clinging to his skin as Jack’s hair dripped down onto his shoulders.

He was freshly shaven, too. Eric could smell his aftershave.

“Jack.”

Stepping down the remainder of the ornate stairs, Jack took the opportunity to pause and bow before approaching him. “Oh lord, here we go. Listen, I just need my bag.”

“Eric, wait, I’d like to apologize for everything that happened earlier. I should have waited until my father and mother were here to introduce you to this,” Jack gestured to everything.

“And?” The Southerner crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

Jack blinked, “And…I’m sorry for being short on patience with you. I should have understood you were scared and confused.”

“And? Is there anything else you regret?”

Standing there, dripping onto an expensive rug, Jack couldn’t think of anything.

“The proposal,” Eric finally reminded.

“Oh. That.”

“And?”

Jack smirked but didn’t say anything, “Come back tomorrow for tea at two, my father and mother would like to see you and would like to see Suzanne again. Nurse will accompany you back and forth from your home to classes. He likes to wear disguises.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty?”

Jack corrected, “It’s Your Grace and goodnight, Eric.”

“Now wait just a minute there. If you don’t say anything, I’ll just assume you don’t regret it.” He guffawed, as though the concept was ridiculous. And it was. Completely.

Jack let himself meet Eric’s eyes holding them there for a few moments, as though the answer would be there. “Goodnight, Your Highness. Till tomorrow.”

Now it was Eric’s turn to be shocked, watching as he disappeared back upstairs into the living chambers of visiting dignitaries and royalty. Somehow he made it in an Uber with a hockey duffel in his hand and Nurse’s number written on the palm of his hand.

And Eric couldn’t remember any of that.

Because he hadn’t been able to look away from the man’s eyes.

Oh Lord.


	3. Chapter 3

“Good speed, Phelps, good speed, keep it up!” Coach Hall called out from across the ice. Practice seemed to be the only place in the last week that Eric could literally skate away from his problems. He left all thoughts of Genovia, his parents, and that handsome, if a little irksome duke on the bench. Pushing his limits was something that Eric was used to, on the ice and in the kitchen, and today was no exception.

Swiping his stick fast in front of him, Eric stole the puck from Shitty, bumping against the man to separate him from it. Speeding down the other side of the ice, he stared Johnson down, who rose up, shifting from side to side as the yells picked up from around him.

With an extra burst of speed, Eric faked right and swung in to the left, sinking the puck in the top corner.

Leaning against the boards behind the goal, he tried to catch his breath, leaning his head back. “Sorry, Shitty!” He called out as the man skated up to him, knocking their helmets violently together.

Even though he technically was one, Eric would never fully understand jocks.

“Attaboy! That was a fuckin’ beaut, Phelpsy. ‘Swawesome,” Shitty crowed.

There was that nickname. It was odd how many names he had collected throughout the past week. Phelpsy on the ice and in the Haus and now Prince Eric-whatever-Bittle. In the past week, before Grand Duke Robert and his wife returned to the consulate to officially scare him into royalty, Eric had also gained a shadow. Skating over to the bench to grab a water, Eric stared down Derek Nurse.

Feet propped up on the seats in front of him, in sunglasses, a leather jacket, and beanie was his body guard. Well, sometimes. Jack apparently never left the consulate enough to warrant round-the-clock security like Eric was.

A heavy hand rested on Eric’s shoulder. Adam Birkholtz, tall, blonde, and an excellent D-man looked up into the empty stands with the young man. As upperclassmen, he and Justin Oluransi (Holster and Ransom to the team) personally saw to the care and keeping of their newest freshman. “He bothering you, Phelpsy? People come in and watch sometimes. Usually doesn’t bother us. But we can get him out of here for you.”

Turning to the giant on skates, Eric shook his head, “I’m fine, really. Just not used to an audience.”

“I’ve seen that guy around before. He’s been laying in all those leaf piles, right? Got in trouble with the landscapers? Broody motherfucker,” Ransom noted, lacing up his skates on the bench, another tall and intimidating figure on the d-line.

“I guess that could be him,” Eric shrugged, of course Nurse wouldn’t sit and wait on a bench like, say, a bodyguard would, “the campus isn’t too big.”

Holster winced, “Hockey fanboys can be intense, Phelpsy. Could be someone who didn’t make the team. Hall would know. We’ll watch out for you.”

And now he was being guarded from his bodyguard. Of course

Eric couldn’t say anything yet. Initiation was only a week ago and though the boys insisted they were all blood now, there were things he knew he couldn’t tell them. His sexuality, for one, and the fact that he could rule a European nation, for another.

As practice ended, Eric reflected on his experience with jocks, slipping out the back of Faber, the crunch of leaves underfoot as he embraced the late Saturday morning. In his experience, they were kind of like bears. Loud, brutish, and could attack at any second if he wasn’t careful. So far, they all had been perfect, if a little crazed, gentlemen. They especially loved the pies he made and the fact that the kitchen didn’t smell like spilled beer and molding pizza anymore.

Perhaps that was enough to get on a bear’s good side: food. Food and playing dead, which he did, disappearing into his room early every evening.

Even Shitty, the one who waxed poetic and carried on passionately about his reading on trans-rights cases for his Law and Gender-Identity course, still made Eric jump just a bit if he came around a corner too fast or yelled a little too loudly. Thankfully, Eric was able to hold his own on the ice. His background was in a no-checking high school league, but the transition into a full contact sport was getting better.

“Good goal,” a deep voice shook him out of his reverie. “like seriously, good form and all that. Hockey is very popular in Genovia.” Nurse stepped out of the shadows and approached the younger man, a smile on his face.

Quite aware that he wouldn’t be able to shake the him, Eric sighed and began the walk back to the Haus without his teammates, “Thanks. I’ve heard you’ve been messing up some leaf piles.”

Nurse took the man’s duffel and slung it over his back, “Chill man, this is heavy as shit, let me carry it for you.” He considered Eric’s lowkey accusation, “Some say messing up, but I prefer to think of it as relishing the crisp bite of autumn’s brisk exhale. Leaves are leaves, man, all the ground is where they belong now. We just put them in piles to accommodate us. I mean, they want to get broken down, become soil for trees, and begin the cycle anew, right? By putting them in piles are we keeping them from their purpose in life? Or do they want to be put in oppressive, uniform piles to…”

Eric tuned out, unable to quite handle Nurse’s impromptu lecture on what leaves wanted to do.

“—at least in Central Park we could still advocate for less leaf maintenance during the fall.”

“I thought you lived in Genovia.”

“I do,” Nurse didn’t seem bothered by the change of subject, “Now I do, at least. I’m from Manhattan originally.

Was a poet for quite a while and then got this gig after I took a bullet for an artless flap-mouthed mouseketeer outside a club. It wasn’t bad, didn’t even need surgery, but when I was in the hospital, the Grand Duke said he had read some of my poetry and dug my vibe and offered me a job and a place to stay in Genovia after I healed up. Wanted me guarding his son. Been doing it ever since,” Nurse winked, “My backstory is trademarked, I’ll have you know.”

Eric smiled, amused until he spotted a black limo pull up to the curve, Derek opening the door for him with ease. 

Eric threw nervous glances over his shoulder, hoping the others wouldn’t see. God forbid they did and thought he was going to…prom or something. “I could still scream and run?” His nervousness phrased it like a question.

The intimidating bodyguard smirked and made no move towards him. “You’re fast on the ice, but I’d still catch you, dude. Besides, it’s just tea with some awesome people and your mom,” he rested a hand on his shoulder, moving his hand up and down, as though teaching him how to breathe. “Chill. Breathe. Hee-hoo-hee.”

 

Instead of waiting in the foyer, Eric and his mother, who had spent an hour on the phone debating what dress to wear, were ushered in immediately to the gardens again. The pear trees were losing their blossoms, preparing for the coming of fall and winter. Sitting down in the plush garden seats, Eric held his mother’s hand under the table. She fidgeted, nerves pouring off her. “Mama, you’re sweating more’n a sinner in church.” He chided.

“I am? Do I look splotchy?” She opened her compact and inspected her reflection.

“Yeah, you’re more nervous’n a long-tailed cat in a room of rocking chairs.”

Finally, he got her to chuckle. She leaned against his shoulder, “Sorry, I’m just so… so nervous.”

Before Eric could reply, a delighted squeal echoed through the garden. Along the garden path, amongst bushes of lush geraniums, appeared a blonde woman, her eyes blue and striking, even at a distance. “ _Suzie_!” She jumped up and down, despite her stylish pantsuit and rushed forward, her arms outstretched.

“ _Ali_!” Came the reply from his mother, shooting out of her seat to wrap her arms around the taller woman.

The attendants stood stiff at a distance, which could only mean one thing.

Grand Duke Robert Zimmermann did not look as severe as Eric had imagined him. He was huge, he easily could have been on the defensive line of an NHL team. His jaw was strong but a smile lit up his face as he spied his wife in the arms of a dear friend. While Grand Duchess Alicia’s eyes looked depthless and empty with their blue gaze, Bob’s eyes looked tender and warm. Duke Jack’s had inherited traits from the pair of them. Speak of the devil.

Walking down the garden path, nearly hidden amidst the fragrant flowers, talking to his attaché, Duke Jack stopped when he saw Eric. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach before Eric talked himself down.

The man was crazy. Absolutely crazy and stuffy. Coming from a world of such excess and privilege, he was no doubt blinded by the fact that he could have anything that he wanted. Asking a man to marry him when they first met probably seemed normal to him. Jack was probably offended that he couldn’t just buy him off.

But Lord, who wouldn’t give everything to a face like that. He was the spitting image of his father, who wrapped an arm around his boy and shook him a little as his the Grand Duke continued to watch the reunion. Jack watched on, amused, but stole glances at Eric occasionally as the pair stood off to the side.

“Get over here, Suzie-Q!” The grand duke, though he only wore a fine suit, still seemed infinitely royal even as he slapped his knees and opened his arms, catching a running Suzanne Phelps. He spun her around in his arms.

“Bad Bob!”

Duke Jack moved to stand next to Eric, his arms behind his back as they watched the reunion. Eric was starting to actually tear up a bit, the three of them talking excitedly, remarking on how the years had passed them by. Sniffing, he wiped at his eyes stubbornly. He nearly jumped a foot in the air when he felt something soft press into his hand. A handkerchief with an embroidered JLZ on the corner.

Eric turned to look at the duke who was him the handkerchief, Jack’s eyes were kind, if a little shy. Someone was clearly trying to get on his good side. Taking the kerchief, their fingers brushed. Stubbornly, Eric pressed the silken material to his eyes, dabbing. Eric blinked when he was finished.

In the fairy tales you never found out what the heroines did with the handkerchiefs they were given. Did they give them back? Keep them? Leave them laying around? Eric tucked it into his pocket for lack of a good decision to make. Maybe he did need etiquette lessons.

Once the tears were dried and everyone seemed to be all out of hugs, Alicia turned to the two boys. “This is our son, Jack.” With a smile, Jack stepped forward and took Suzanne’s hand, her face definitely splotchy now.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, ma’am,” he smiled and Eric could pinpoint the moment when his mother sprouted heart eyes.

“Oh… looks like Dickie was right about you,” she giggled, her eyes shifting over to her son. “Ali, Bob, you have a very handsome son.”

“I’m sorry who—”

“Thank you, mother,” Eric groaned.

The Grand Duke with his wife on his arm moved forward and smiled down at Eric, the pair of them bowed formally before “Bad Bob” stuck his hand out for him to shake. “It’s nice to see you again, Eric.” Alicia moved forward and hugged him, starting to sniffle again. She wasn’t much taller than him, though she seemed much wiser than her beauty would let on.

“Oh how you’ve grown up. The last time we saw you, you were still a baby. When Dick left America, we were on the plane too…” She stepped away, excusing herself as she turned to the table and poured herself a cup of tea, trying to calm her emotions.

“It’s an honor, Your Grace,” Eric inclined his head, thankful that the pair of them hadn’t addressed him by a title that he didn’t want. He checked to make sure she was okay before he took his seat.

As they sat down, Alicia seemed loathe to be separated from his mother, so the three of them sat at one end of the table while the two dukes sat at the other end, attendants painstakingly pouring their tea and serving them ladyfingers and digestives. This level of attention was not something Eric was used to, especially coming from a family that had at least two “fend for yourself” dinners a week. Now at the Haus it was “fend for yourself” semester. The only one producing anything from that kitchen was hands down him.

As everyone grew comfortable in their seats, sampling the tea and the sweets, Eric felt himself get more ridged and worried. The ebb and flow of conversation was sweet, their mothers peppering questions about their lives since they had been parted for so long.

“Those political science classes came in handy, huh?”

Alicia nodded, a faraway look in her eyes as she held his mother’s hands, “Changing my major really did help in the long run, though those classes were so boring, do you remember them, Bob?” She spied her husband’s look of distaste, chuckling. “I just wish-- I don’t know. I mean, I know I double-majored by the end of the year but, but I wish I could have taken just a few more music classes.”

Eric listened, her story not unlike the one that his mother had feared.

Suzanne’s voice was quiet, concerned, “Please tell me that you still play.”

“She used to sing me a lullaby every night, and she is the best piano teacher I’ve ever had,” Jack answered.

“Also the worst, I’m the only piano teacher you’ve ever had.”

Eric tried to imagine his mother without her paints, without the color under her nails, the smocks that were a collage of all her pieces. The Florida room that was perfect for sculpting and served as her art studio during the cooler months. This was a woman who laughed deep and loudly, someone who was unafraid to be herself. That part of her, that fire, had been what he had looked up to for years, when things got tough. For the first time, Eric began to worry if he would lose part of himself if he agreed to this arrangement.

But he wasn’t going to.

Not at all.

“Eric, I’ll cut right to the chase. I’d like to apologize on behalf of our son for overwhelming you that first day. My son has never been the one for miscommunication or subtlety, though he was acting with only your best interests at heart, I promise you,” Robert began, setting his lily-white tea cup down on its hand-painted saucer.

Alicia cut in, “Eric, in a matter of weeks, we’ll be hosting an annual ball here. We were… we are hoping to present you to the press and the public on that occasion. But, you’ll need some instruction.”

Already shaking his head, Eric turned to speak to the noblewoman, “Duchess Alicia, I promise you I’m not meant for royalty. You can ask my mother, I’ve never led anyone. No one wants to follow me and no one would believe _I’m_ royalty.”

“What is true and what others believe about others is almost never true,” Robert reminded, his gaze steady and warm across the tea set between them. “Eric, I tell nothing but the truth when I tell you that you have your father’s legacy, the way he ruled, within you.”

Mindful of his Mama sitting right there, Eric deflected, “I know nothing about ruling a country. I’m eighteen. In case any of you forgot, I’m still trying to pass college algebra.”

“After reviewing Samwell’s courses, we’ve found an academic path that could help best prepare you for the crown, should you want to take it,” Alicia waved over William who came forward, the tall man handing Eric a packet of Samwell’s courses, highlighted and with meticulous notes. “There’s also some room there for your own classes. A good education, one worth having, is an intersection of your passions and your future. I’d recommend, just starting out, taking this European poli-sci course. It’s not usually offered to freshmen, but I’m sure we could…”

Eric sighed, quite aware that the sound and the gesture of him rubbing his eyes tiredly would not be well received amongst dignitaries. “I can’t rule a country. I’m not my dad. I never met him.”

The silence that fell was deafening, constricting the five as a few tactful guests sipped at their tea. “May I offer, Your Highness,” a deep voice cut through the collective quiet, “our family purchasing this additional course, as a sign of good faith? If you aren’t interested in the course of study by the end of this semester, we can take this into consideration.” Jack seemed to be searching for a word as Eric avoided his gaze.

“A trial run?”

“Yes, a trial-run,” Jack answered, more confident. “My family and I are also prepared to provide instruction and security as a royal. We wouldn’t want to throw this all at you without any support, Your Highness.”

“You can neither accept nor reject the offer of the crown until the New Year's Eve Ball at the consulate,” Alicia offered, her voice quiet. “I know… I know if I had someone who wanted to look out for me, someone who helped me dip my toe in the water before this happened then I would have taken it.”

The Zimmermann family fell quiet, though Suzanne wrapped her back up in a hug. Though time and distance had separated them, Eric took solace in the fact that his mother had reunited with someone who meant so much to her.

If he accepted this instruction Alicia Zimmermann wouldn’t leave the country yet. His mother could work on mending a broken heart and turn to someone who could support her when he could not. She could spend the rest of the year, and the holidays, with her dear friends. All it would cost were prince lessons. The answer was easy.  

“Fine. I’ll attend your prince lessons until the ball and then I’ll let you know my decision.” He could already tell what it was going to be, but if it kept his mother around someone who would take care of her, who would make her smile and laugh like he tried so hard to do every day back home, then it was worth a hundred lessons with the stuffy Duke Jack.

And Eric could handle stuffy aristocrats.

For his mother, he would try anything.

 

A week passed by, filled with nothing but school, hockey, and prince lessons. Well, he privately called it prince lessons. To his teammates, he called it a job after school. Which it absolutely was. It was a chore and a half. But the one part of this new arrangement, as he was driven to and fro by the aloof bodyguard Nurse, that he loved; his pollical sci course: European Politics – Collaboration and Calamity.

It was rigorous, the discussions were interesting, the readings were riveting. It got dry sometimes, but the intricacies were too interesting to dismiss as too hard.

Besides, they had to select a country and do a summative project on it. He had chosen Genovia.

Just in case.

Out on the ice, teammates all seemed to have his back. No one had tried to lock him in anywhere or steal anything from him or do anything that would have him doubt that their kindness towards him was anything less than genuine. Eric took that back, they were all thieves whenever there were baked goods about.

The things he had seen those boys do to pies and other pastries were enough to give him nightmares.

And then there was the waking nightmare: Duke Jack Zimmermann.

The man, only a few years his senior, was like a coin with two sides. The first was the quiet, unassuming duke who read Shakespeare beside him quietly in the consulate’s library, their knees sometimes touching, his voice quiet as they discussed a passage. Eric hadn’t heard Jack laugh yet, but he bet it was wonderful. His heart did seem kind and he was capable of patience.

However, the other side of the coin was the stuffy, worried aristocrat who had never had to work for a thing in his life. His demands were ridiculous and he would say vague things like “royalty never wavers”.

 

They began the day with walking lessons. _Walking lessons_.

“I understand you’re a hockey player, which will go over well in Genovia, but you’re not always on the ice,” Jack lectured. “When walking in a crowd, one is under scrutiny at all time.” Eric stood off to the side, William taking notes as he talked, as though he would write an etiquette book. “Now walk.”

Rolling his eyes, Eric crossed the room. Jack copied his gait, his shoulders hunched and his head low, “So we don’t _schlump_ like this.”

On his tip toes, Eric held his head high and flapped his arms like wings and walked again.

William had hid a laugh.

Jack only scowled.

 

Eric stood in the library now, his favorite place to be inside the consulate. His favorite place primarily because he could look out into the gardens and sometimes watch the people who were luckily enough to tend so such beautiful flowers, their knees deep in the soil as they weeded and prepared for the fall.

Inside, warm sunlight spilled into the library through floor-to-ceiling bullet-proof windows, surrounded by soft and comfortable reading chairs and books. Eric had done his homework in there once or twice, when Jack let him get away with it.

As a visiting dignitary, Grand Duke Robert was busy visiting other nobles along the East coast and spent a great deal of time in Washington D.C., making him absent from his son’s “prince lessons”.

His mother?

As Eric stood and gazed out the windows, the duke nattering on about something unimportant, he smiled for the first time since stepping into the consulate that Tuesday afternoon. His mother and Duchess Alicia had been spending every moment together, best friend reunited after almost sixteen years. They wasted no time in traveling or going to spas, and his mother had been moved out of her hotel, into the consulate.

These prince lessons were doing exactly what Eric had planned, making sure that his mother was being taken care of in ways that he could not. His mother never really had closure after his father died, tears springing to her eyes and tamped down randomly back home, something reminding her of a life she once shared with someone else—

“Eric!”

A voice stirred him out of his reverie, tearing his gaze from the gardens that wouldn’t be blooming for much longer.

“Does your bad posture affect your hearing? Turn,” Jack gestured with a finger.

Rolling his eyes, Eric turned in a quick circle. “No, no, _slowly_.” He gritted his teeth and obeyed.

“Posture, heinous. Hairstyle too wild…” _Oh this boy was_ not. “Complexion fair. Stop!”

Eric stopped in front of Jack, looking up at him. “Eyes, lovely.”

Fighting a blush coming to his cheeks, Eric ducked his head at the compliment.

“But I have to stoop so low to see them,” Jack announced to Will who was feverishly taking notes, two pencils stuck behind his ears. He continued, unaware that he had offended Eric, “The neck is…”

“Oh hell no, I’m not listening to this. Stop. Stop all of this,” Eric walked away, his shoulder pushing past Jack like they were on the ice.

After a small moment Duke Jack paused before he gave pursuit. “Eric! Eric, wait…”

Turning around in the grand corridor, Eric put a hand on his hips, a finger held out to him. “Now hang on a minute. You can’t just belittle me and point out my flaws thinking you can change me. I don’t care what you think, or where you came from. That’s impolite as fuck, dude.”

If Jack knew about the one part of him that he had a feeling would _not_ go over well in a small country, he feared the duke would try to change that, too.

Will hurried around the corner, his pencil still posed at his clipboard. He made another note as Jack instructed, “Language is immature—”

Eric seethed, “Listen. Come here. Just, Will, go, I don’t know, count the statues in the garden, or something,” Eric grabbed the duke by the collar, ready to drag him.

“There are twenty-seven.” Will piped up, his eyes blown wide as the heir to the throne manhandled the ruler’s son.

“What about the whole consulate?”

Will stood there a moment, his mind racing, “Sixty-three.”

Eric tossed a look over to Jack, who looked impressed at his attaché. “Well, go take a coffee break. I’m sure they don’t give you enough of those.”

Will sagged, abandoning his post, turning down the hall.

Suddenly aware that a short American had a good hold on his collar and was likely going to drag him to an unknown demise, Jack floundered, “Wait wait wait, Will! I request that you stay.”

Eric smirked at the assistant who looked hopelessly stuck. “Dex, I _command_ you as the future-prince and ruler of Genovia to take a goddamn coffee break.”

Looking between the pair like a confused child amid spatting parents, William Poindexter finally shrugged in apology to his duke and disappeared around the corner.

 

The Georgian wasted no time tossing the man into a nearby linen closet. In the dark and in a small space, Eric began to rethink his strategy but yanked on the overhead light between them, realizing that his nose nearly hit the chest of the duke. “So it’s true, you accept as future prince?”

“Like hell I do.”

“It must be true if you’re bossing around the help.”

Eric shoved a finger into his chest, “Listen here, _buster_. Dex isn’t ‘the help’, he probably has to tell you your right and left every morning to help you remember. And neither is Nurse ‘the help’, they’re good people. And I will boss whoever I want to around because I know what you’re doing.”

Jack crowded Eric, thinly veiled amusement shining in his eyes, “And what is it that I’m doing?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to force me out.”

Whatever answer that Jack was expecting, that hadn’t been it.

That hadn’t been it at all.

 

Jack didn’t know much about Southerners, just from what he had seen in American movies and read in books. Huckleberry Fin, this young man certainly was not. Nor was he a Larry the Cable Guy figure. He was someone who liked spending time outside, but in the gardens, not rustling up cattle or making pig calls. Eric apparently baked, though he had yet to see evidence of this claim. He had never seen him in cowboy boots and hadn’t once brought up “muddin’” or Dolly Parton. However, they didn’t talk about much else than what he asked they discuss.

Though Jack had yet to do more research on the subject, the man was confident that Eric was unlike anyone that he had met before which was equal parts fascinating and terrifying for Jack.

Fascinating because he was relieved to know that such an individual was slated to become the next prince and rule Genovia, eventually as their king. It was also terrifying because he somewhat fancied him. Who couldn’t with his large eyes, secret smiles, and adorable accent?

Which made it all the more stupid that he had proposed the moment they had met.

“Wait, what? I think you’re mistaken.” Eric had to be, why would they depose him? 

Eric continued, “Oh, you think I’m stupid or something?”

No Jack didn’t think that at all. A tad provincial, yes, but growing up in a corn field did that to person, he supposed. “No not at—”

“Because I have eyes, I see what you’re doing here. You’re trying to intimidate me, insult me, scare me away from this place. Well, I have some news for you Buster Brown,” Who was Buster Brown? Him, Jack supposed. “I ain’t going anywhere.”

Standing in this tiny linen closet, a dim light casting shadows on them, Jack shook his head, “Why would we want you gone?”

Oh. Jack was caught up now, answering his own question.

“Your family knows everything there is to know about Genovia, you were born there, raised there. Why wouldn’t you want to take over the throne? When you proposed—” Eric’s face blanched with realization, “You wanted me to marry you.”

Jack blinked, “I believe that was obvious.”

“No, you wanted me to say yes, marry you and then you could rule. Or you’d try to kick me out after the fact, thinking I’d abdicate. You want the crown all to yourself!” Eric gasped, covering his mouth.

“Excuse me? Your late-father, the king, specified in his will that he wanted our family to rule until you came to the throne. We’re not next in line!” Jack leaned back against the shelves of linen, rubbing his temples.

Eric lost some of his spitfire. “You’re not next in line?”

“No. It’s a distant relative of yours, very distant. Your father had no brothers or sisters and his parents are dead, and your mother wouldn’t return to Genovia to rule. It’s quite the point of contention that he wanted our family to rule in your stead.”

Crossing his arms in front of himself, Eric frowned. How could he look attractive even when frowning? “What is this relative like? I mean, I doubt they can do a better job than you.”

“You’re right, they can’t because they’re absent in their duties they currently hold. Jet setting, models on each arm, it’s embarrassing,” Jack rolled his eyes. “He dropped out of school and has been spending his parent’s money ever since. And now that he’s caught wind that he could be the next king, he says it’s good for his viewers. Apparently he video tapes all he does and shares it online.”

Eric chuckled, unable to help it. “Video tape, oh you’re so cute.”

Jack lifted his head, “I’m cute?”

“I mean naïve.”

“Oh.”

Silence hung over the pair of them.

“So you’re not after the crown?”

Jack shook his head, looking into Eric’s eyes. Their gaze held a person and Jack felt captured in their gaze. “No. No, I’m not. I believe that my family could do Genovia proud, but it’s not my honor to have.”

“But you still proposed to me to get it.” Eric smiled as though he had caught the man in his own lie.

“I proposed to you because of many reasons,” Jack took a step closer, hoping he hadn’t overstepped his bounds. Then again, he was in a linen closet with the future king of his homeland.

Eric scoffed, though the noise sounded weak, “Many reasons, you had just met me.”

“You left quite the impression,” Jack reassured, winking.

Did Jack see Eric blush? In the low light of the cramped closet, he couldn’t be sure. “Well your impression was…crafty.”

They moved in closer, the pair of them nearly lost in each other.

“And you’re—”

The linen closet door swung open, the light making Eric and Jack wince simultaneously. Will stood there, his mouth hanging open. “I’m so sorry, sirs, I’ll just…” He began to close the closet door.

“No no no!” Eric put a hand on the door. “I was just talking to Duke Jack about ways to modify his curriculum to be less snobby.”

Jack smirked, but made no move to correct him, “Let’s start the lesson, then.”

Eric brushed past the pair of them though he swore he could hear Will’s voice, a smug and quiet, “ _Oh, something’s starting, alright_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of a pretty sick parent, not shown

William Poindexter didn’t grow up in privilege. His father was an American soldier in France who met his mother, a Genovian, on spring break. When his mother found out she was pregnant, his dad had already beat it back to the US, leaving her to drop out of university to care for her baby boy.

            So Will hated Americans.

            While in the system, his mother barely had any money to scrape together, the country’s welfare system poor and governed by the wealthy and privileged. His mother worked odd jobs all her life, until she got sick at the beginning of last year. Their money they had been putting back to buy her a cottage away from the city and in the lush country was siphoned into medical bills by overpaid doctors who could only treat the symptoms but not the cause. The wealthy lawmakers in Genovia held their welfare backed up like a hose ready to burst, their thumbs stubbornly over the nozzle. Will tried desperately to catch any drips and drops he could to support himself and his mother.

            So Will hated the wealthy.

            But he never gave up, pushing harder and harder until he could finally apply to the Genovian Attaché Corps. When King Richard died the country had mourned, but in his royal will he had allocated a substantial scholarship fund to help kids like him. William quit his job working in construction and joined the Genovian Attaché Corps, taking a risk and sending nearly all the money he made back home to help with his mother’s treatments.

            So Will had nothing but love for the Zimmermann and Bittle families.

            And was perpetually annoyed by his bodyguard, Derek Nurse.

            How couldn’t he be? Growing up in Manhattan, apparently one of the most expensive places in the United States, his parents throwing money his way, more than enough to pay for his mother’s treatments in his back pocket…that was all he needed to know that Derek Nurse was a smarmy, privileged fuck.

            Sure, he played cool and collected, a smirk on his face, told people to chill. Chill. No wonder the trust fund baby never needed to panic, never needed to be anything but chill. He never had to worry about missing a payment, the electricity shutting off, or being at the mercy of a botched system.

            Why Derek wanted to be friends was beyond him. Absolutely beyond him. They were both assigned to the Grand Duke’s son, Jack, and that’s where everything should have ended. But it didn’t.

            It started slowly, as did most things that left an indelible mark on your heart. They shared coffee breaks when Jack was in meeting after meeting, they took lunch conveniently at the same time, and now they were binging “Brooklyn 99” when the evening guards took over and they both should have been asleep. Instead they sat in the common room, the space between them slowly disappearing until their shoulders touched and Derek opened his hand for him to take.

Will still couldn’t bring himself to take it.

Being with Derek, laughing along to an American television show, binging a show when they should have been resting, was familiar and calming, especially now that they were in the United States. His father was still out there somewhere in the large country, living on without his sick wife and son. When those thoughts threatened to take him over, he’d remember the one American who could still, without fail, make him at least blush or smile. But Will reasoned with himself that he was a bird and Derek was a fish, a clueless, nouveau riche, handsome, sweet, American fish, and there was no where for them to find common ground.

But when the cool fall evenings swept through the consulate, the lights dimmed, and Captain Holt came on the television…perhaps there was one place they could share together.

 

Derek Nurse couldn’t care less about the show. “Brooklyn 99” was a good show and all but it made Will laugh. That was important. So much of the day, his face was a cloud of quiet and mild panic. It was nice to be able to have a courtside seat to see him unwind and smile for the first time that day. It had taken a while to get to that point, a lot of coaxing and talking up a show that he’d never seen but knew was funny and was available to stream in the consulate. But they only did it Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Will called his mom all the other days of the week.

She was sick, Derek knew, but that was it. Will didn’t get much of a chance to visit her. That and, when she called, his face lit up in the biggest smile he had ever seen. The first time it happened he was blown away. This stuffy attaché had a heart and a big one at that.

So Derek worked to speak more with Will as a friend. But before long, the more they talked, the more episodes they binged, he couldn’t deny his feelings. Feelings were meant to be experienced and to revel in. It was time to turn on the charm.

And it was going… Not particularly well, but it was going. He teased, flirted, and winked under his designer sunglasses, hoping to warm Will to the idea of the pair of them together. While he succeeded bringing a blush to his freckled face on more than one occasion, Derek had to admit that a little flirting wasn’t what he was going for. For all his love poems and soliloquies on the human experience… Derek Nurse had not experienced too much in terms of genuinely gaining someone’s affection. He would love someone, have fun, and go with the flow.

            But he had never been _in_ love with someone.

            As cliché and cringey as that sounded, it was an astute description of his love life. But maybe, with Will, he could change that.

           

            Nurse grabbed their usual afghan from a quilt rack in the lavish staff living room as Will knelt in front of the screen, trying to hook up the Hulu. “Heard you had a coffee break today. That’s new and exciting.”

            Will smirked as he scrolled through the TV source inputs, trying to pull everything up, “It was so weird, I couldn’t get used to it, though. I’ll get spoiled having a whole five minutes to myself every day.”

            Making the plush couch as cuddle worthy as possible, Nurse was stuck perpetually in the casual arm behind the back of the couch stage, “Five minutes is asking a lot.”

            “They seem to be getting along well.”

            “Despite the whole marriage thing?”

            “Yeah, Fun Jack has been reining it in lately. It was fun to finally see someone talk about how stiff he was. Do you remember when he called him starched?” Will laughed, the sound bright.

            Sitting patiently as they pulled up their shared queue, Nurse paused, “Do you think it’ll actually work? Will they get together?”

            “I think you, Casanova, could figure that out better than I could,” Will replied with a wink.

            Nurse was always happy to have the conversation turn back to him and his romantic prowess. “Oh? Finally giving credit where it’s due, I see.”

            “No, I’m just saying that you get around. Collecting notches for your bed post.”

            “You cut me to the quick!”

            “It’s the truth. You’re a player.”

            Will settled on the sofa next to him, decidedly farther than how they had sat before. Nurse's brow furrowed, “Is that what you really think?” He asked.

            The attaché didn’t reply. The episode started without another word about it.

            For a man filled with so many words, Nurse certainly struggled to say exactly how he felt about Will, about what he saw in the man. But every time he tried, the words bubbled up and popped behind his closed lips, unable to surface. Filled with bravery, Nurse reached down and took one of Will’s hands. “If you think I’m player, okay, I can’t change your mind, but I want you to know that it’s never been—”

            Feeling the man’s hand in his, rough and calloused around his fingers, Nurse looked up to Will to tell him how he really felt, only to look into the eyes of a shocked and a little scared Will.

            Fuck. He’d been reading this wrong. Reading Will wrong. Whatever bravado, celestial encouragement he had felt when he felt how right their hands fit together was short lived.

            He had fucked this up.

            So, he did the only logical thing his mind could muster at the time.

            He left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for being so patient, I'm so happy to be returning to this fic to post regularly again.


	5. Chapter 5

Eric had long set his phone on the edge of his desk as he worked on his homework, completing some last-minute research in a paper. On speakerphone, his mother continued to tell Eric all about yet another girl’s day she and Jack’s mother had gone on. No detail was too small to look over as she relived her day with her son.

            “That’s real nice, Mama,” Eric continued, his headfirst dive into homework an obvious attempt to keep Duke Jack out of his mind, their closet rendezvous still replaying itself over and over again in his mind. How close they had gotten towards the end of their conversation before Dex had found them…

            “Dickie? Hello? Earth to my son?” His mama laughed on speakerphone. Oh shoot he’d been daydreaming.

            “Uh yes Mama?” Eric was quick to reply. “Sorry about that… homework is just a little harder than Mrs. Greene’s class in Madison.”

            There was a beat of silence before his mother knowingly replied, “Uh huh.”

            “Really, Mama!” Eric put down his pencil and looked over to his phone. But just like a wide open book, his mother knew exactly how to read him page for page.

            “Dickie, you’re thinking about that Zimmermann boy, aren’t you?”

            “No. Yes.”

            The sound of his mother settling in for a long story was one that Eric could picture even over the phone as she got comfortable. It was inevitable now.

            Without further encouragement, Eric recounted the story of them in the closet, how he had confronted him and told him exactly what was on his mind. He may or may not have overlooked the fact that Jack still didn’t see what was so crazy about proposing to him the minute he saw him.

            “I’m glad you said your piece, the last thing Alicia and I want is for you two to not be friends. We think you both would have a lot of fun together. I know these classes with Bob and Jack are a bit much and they may be overwhelming, but Eric I think you’re just doin’ the best job,” Suzanne smiled big over the phone. “I’m just so proud of you. You really are my strong little man.”

            “Speaking of little, he said I was too short, too,” Eric said bitterly, though he couldn’t deny that praise, any of it, from his mother was like a balm, soothing him on tough days.

            A chuckle crackled through the speakerphone, “Well, what the good Lord didn’t give you in height, he made up for in heart. You’ve got lots of it, honey, and don’t forget it.”

            And if that didn’t make Eric puff up proud, he didn’t know what else would.

 

            Closing his Dumas, Jack weighed the tome heavily in his hand. This wouldn’t do for their public speaking lesson. Sitting by the window in the library, a room he knew Eric was fond of, he cast a discerning glance to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with literary classics. Any of these texts would no doubt sound provincial with Eric’s drawl and hesitation. At least he wasn’t one of those who said ‘literally’ or ‘like’ every other word. Jack didn’t believe he would ever gain patience for those types.

            As Jack stood, sweeping a perfunctory gaze over the titles and rococo library, something, or rather, someone appeared just outside the window. The very man the prince was waiting for was delaying their time in valuable lessons together by speaking to the help… Wait, no, Eric had chastised him for the word. It was a gardener.

            The gardener was aged, with laugh lines and wrinkles brought about by years of happiness gardening in the sun. Jack did not know his name but had seen him around enough, his knees dirty and a sun hat on his head to ward off burns. The pair laughed now, gesturing to the gardens as they did.

            But why? It was only the garden. It was pretty to look at but necessary in keeping up the appearances of Genovia in comparison with other east coast consulates. The Japanese embassy had a waterfall, for goodness sake. Why couldn’t they have a proverbial Eden?

            Fighting his instinct to march out there and pointedly remind Eric of his responsibilities when Eric turned and walked with the gardener towards some mulch. Going to their knees, Jack watched in silence as Eric spoke animatedly. He seemed to get along with people well, easing the conversation, not monopolizing it by speaking too much. As Jack continued to watch as the pair planted specks of seeds into the wet ground, Jack felt his heart soften. The way Eric’s eyes crinkled, his brow furrowed as he dug through the earth, it reminded himself of his own work with photography, his own work on essays and articles he’d written investigating Genovia’s history.

            Before long, Eric appeared to thank the gardener, shaking his hand and moving back inside the embassy. It was a few minutes more before Eric reappeared with washed hands, hastening into the library. “I’m sorry about that, I know I’m late.”

            Jack looked up and smiled at Eric’s entrance, causing him to hesitate in getting behind the podium they had set up for the public speaking, “You’re smiling at me, what’s wrong?” He accused softly.

            “What were you planting out there?”

            The younger man’s cheeks lit up, “Oh just some rose bushes, they’re gonna take a while to bloom, but you know.”

            Jack didn’t know. He pressed, looking up the bookshelves for a particular text, “Go on.”

            “Oh okay, um, I love gardening. My mama and I used to do it back on the ranch, and I’ve tended to peach trees and roses and all kinds of flowers. We had a vegetable garden and some blackberry bushes that grew wild,” Eric’s face broke open, the clouds parting and the sun shining through at last. How only two words, ‘go on’, could inspire such enthusiasm, Jack kicked himself for not doing it more often.

“—oh and the pies we’d make, even pot pies with all those vegetables, it just went hand in hand. Gardening and baking. But I don’t do a lot of it anymore. Not since coming to college and being in hockey…” Eric looked up and saw the son of the Grand Duke pause in reaching for a book, seemingly frozen. “You okay?”

Was he? He wasn’t quite sure. He pulled out the book and cleared his throat, “I’m fine, thank you. I like to hear about what you’re interested in. I’d like to hear more about it.” The man looked down at his feet, scuffing them a little on the intricate woven rug. “I fear I talk to often, so I would like to hear more. As much as you’d like to tell me.”

Eric paused, thinking on it for a moment, “Alright.” He reached his hand out for the thick book after Jack flipped through it, pulling up the right section.

            Stepping behind the podium, Eric looked over the writing before giving him a small smile. Jack took a seat to the side, nodding him to go on.

            “ _What’s in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet_ …”


	6. Chapter 6

Eric had literally signed up for this.

French classes were always the worst. His professor, bless her, believed in immersion as well as copious amounts of homework. But what he hadn’t anticipated prior to the school year starting was that he was the heir to a European nation where French and Italian were regularly spoken. It was even one of the official languages. What had been a GE had now become a mission to understand another part of Genovia.

            When Grand Duke Zimmermann, or “Bad Bob”, as her mother kept calling him (which made him blush to no end) had heard of this class, he announced that they simply _must_ take French lessons together. So when Eric visited the consulate, he met with Bob as much as his son.

            French was also very hard, but less hard when there was a boisterous man who openly looked forward to these lessons with the son of King Richard. In between piles of papers and official proclamations and correspondence between world leaders, Bob looked forward to really meeting and speaking with Eric. While Jack and Eric usually liked to meet in the library, there was a small offside room to Bob’s office. It still looked as museum-like and formal as every other part of the palace but it came with something very important.

            A mini-fridge stocked with pints of a Genovian ice cream brand. As weird as it was, his favorite flavor was “Want S’more Pears?” which combined just that – smores and pears. Which sounded blasphemous but was actually amazing. It was the perfect bribe to finish his homework somewhere as quiet as the library with a support system just nearby. Bob would even open up the connecting door between the two offices so they could work in tandem. And steal a pint on occasion.

            It was odd knowing that such a loud man had been the best friend, the brother in arms, to his father, the King of Genovia. A man that he didn’t even know would accept him for a laundry list of reasons. While he was together with Bob, they didn’t talk about his father, or at least Bob never broached the topic. It felt like they were both suspended. Both wanting to talk about the missing man but not wanting to upset the other. But that didn’t make their time together less fun or kind. The man was loud and although he looked like the spitting image of his son, he made jokes and

            Twiddling his pencil between his fingers, Eric focused on the pint of ice cream that was literally a few feet away, tucked safely against the ice of the fridge. All he had to do now was go have a conversation with the Grand Duke. Just a conversation in French. He always insisted on it in exchange for looking over his papers. He thought about what he wanted to say, planning it out. There were so few things he knew he could talk about and understand at least a quarter of the responses. The weather was a safe choice, he wished he knew about flowers or baking so he could talk about a few of his passions. Or maybe even hockey!

            Brow furrowed in thought, he was about to get on the dreaded and usually incorrect Google Translate to figure something out when he heard the door open in his office. Had someone mistaken this door for the Grand Duke’s? Or maybe it was time for their French lesson?

            Jack hesitated when he saw whose office he had walked in to. It was a funny sight, Jack Zimmermann caught in a doorway, thoroughly unprepared to see the man inside. Eric tried to remember it because he knew it wouldn’t happen often. “I’m sorry Eric, I shouldn’t—”

            “No wait wait,” Eric called out, unable to believe he had, “It’s… It’s my French homework.”

            A smarmy grin rose to Jack’s face. “You want me to do your homework.”

            “I do not. I want you to _check_ it, mister.”

            Striding into the room with all the pride of a peacock, Jack took a seat beside Eric on his side of the desk, pointedly ignoring the chairs set out in front. Lord, he couldn’t help but get in on all the action, could he?

            Pulling a red pen seemingly from nowhere, he began to annotate Eric’s loose leaf paper. Who had red pens anymore? The last one he remembered was in Mrs. Greene’s notorious English classes. “Okay, smarty pants. I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad.”

            After only a few corrections, the pen stopped. “No, you’re doing well… But that’s in writing. What about your spoken French?”

            “ _Pas bon_ ,” Eric murmured, quiet and stilted, almost afraid. Jack looked surprised that he could muster even that. A soft pink fell to his cheeks, which Eric couldn’t place why.

            “ _Vraiment? Papa dit que tu vas bien._ ”

            Oh _no_. Eric’s brain short circuited for a moment, blinking, his eyes still blown wide. He did not know that he had a thing for accents and handsome men speaking in different languages until…just that moment. “Your dad what?”

            “My father said you’re good… do you understand French?” Eric tried to school his features when Jack’s concerned hand fell to his shoulder. “ _Bien_?” One word and Eric seemed to fall further, losing his footing when it came to his attraction to Jack. No! Stop it!

            “I am. Okay,” Eric’s voice was stilted as he tried to will his mind from focusing on the comforting weight on his shoulder, the concern lit in Jack’s eyes. He nodded twice, each time short and fast, to prove his point. Which only seemed to concern Jack more.

            Jack stood and moved from the desk to the hall, “I’ll get you some water.”

            “No, it’s. No, thank you it’s fine.”

            “Are you sure?” Jack asked.

            Eric nodded twice more, “Mmhmm. You can go.” Please.

            The grand duke’s son straightened his shoulders and his back, clearing his throat. He walked up to the desk and for a moment Eric feared that he would never leave. Or steal his homework. Honestly, his brain was still a little frazzled. But in one sweeping motion, Jack pulled a perfectly cut rose from his jacket pocket.

            Eric didn’t know when he got to his feet, but he did, his gaze fixated on the rose in the man’s hand. It still looked plump, fully bloomed despite it not being time for the last winter frost to harken them to life. It’s color was a soft pink, a whisper of a shade of red that in the wrong light could be mistaken for a pearly white rose. Eric longed to reach out and touch, to caress the silken petals.

            “This is a Genovian rose. We sent a bouquet to celebrate the Australian prime minister’s new baby. In our greenhouse. We have many. If you… if you would ever like to visit them, I would be happy to take you on a tour. Show you Genovia’s finest flowers,” Jack looked like he wanted to say more but bit his lip, handing the younger man the long-stemmed Genovian rose. His fingers looked red and splotched, a few even bandaged.

            In his hand, the stem felt strong and well-tended, but the thorns were shorn off poorly, by an amateur or by… When Eric looked up to ask if Jack had plucked and prepared the rose, but he was already gone.

            “ _Merci_.”

           

           

            Ten minutes after Jack finally left, it didn’t seem like Eric had gone back to normal. The rose lay there, an unanswered offer, a question that Eric still couldn’t figure out. And he had just done two sets of French homework to make up for their upcoming game.

            Walking in balancing two cups of tea in his hands, a clipboard, and a messenger bag was William Poindexter. He placed two paper cups of tea on the desk and inhaled deeply. “Hello.”

            Eric smiled at the guest, “Why hello there, it’s nice to have some company. And someone who definitely can speak French to help me out…”

            Digging through his messenger back, Dex vetoed the request, “I know how much helping you with French means to the Grand Duke, so thank you but no thank you.”

            Far from a blind man, Eric had been seeing the stress that had been added to Dex lately. “Are you doing alright, sugar?”

            Dex pulled out two fistfuls of important looking documents, “Peachy.”

            “Mmhmm…”

            “Look, I just need somewhere quiet to work on something for five minutes to myself but give everyone else the excuse I’m helping you with something,” the exasperated attaché sighed.

            After a few moments of silence, Eric nodded, taking the tea cup and bringing it closer to himself. “Thank you for coming to visit me. But I ain’t gonna let up. You’ve been working so hard lately, I haven’t seen you much these last few days. And when I do see you you’re a melancholy mess.” He didn’t know where this bravery had come from addressing someone so plainly like that, but he spoke nothing but the truth.

            “Just… getting by,” Dex frowned, leafing through his documents and making notes in both French and English in the margins.

            Sipping his tea, Eric tried, “I haven’t seen much of you and Nurse together.”

            Oh that did it. Head lifting up in surprise, William Poindexter didn’t quite know what to say. “I don’t want the time.” Like that made sense.

            “You two were as thick as thieves before,” Eric stopped, realizing he might be crossing a few boundaries. The pair of them had chatted and had tea like this before but they hadn’t really talked about things like this. “If I’m crossing a line…”

            “Yes.”

            Softly closing his mouth, Eric looked back down to his homework and continued on his business as Dex continued on with his. Wordlessly, he reached into his bookbag and pulled out a container of snickerdoodles he’d managed to save from the horde at the Haus last night.

            A few moments passed before Dex spotted the bribery and no doubt weighed the options. His fingers glided along the desk, hesitating and stopping before he cracked open the container and pulled a cookie out. Although the taste was sweet and the cookie soft, he immediately frowned, his yellow eyes fixing on the potential ruler of a sovereign nation and back to the cookie.

            As though it had been wrung from the corner of his mouth, Dex gritted out, “It’s not professional to talk about this at work. I’m just. Tired of players.”

            Not looking up, Eric hummed along, not contributing anything and having the good sense to shut up when someone spoke like this. As though they were on thin ice, petrified of falling in.

            “It’s just, I thought he was different. We had this nice friendship going and, sure, he’d flirt and everything but it wasn’t anything other than teasing, right? It wasn’t like he actually meant anything he said to me. You know that that man lived in New York City most of his life, who knows what has been served to him on a silver spoon? Certainly not me. I’m not fitting into his big ego.”  

            There it was and all it had taken was a comforting smile, room to talk, and a snickerdoodle on a rainy afternoon. As Dex continued on, taking this time as a moment to breathe and appreciate some room to talk, Eric couldn’t help but listen on in amusement. He’d always had this talent of people opening up to him. Usually bribery of baked goods was involved, but it made Eric more sensitive to others. A lot could be shared over something that was made from the heart.

            When Dex finally turned to Eric, no doubt expecting the same sentiment, Eric could only speak from the heart. “Maybe before you jump to judgement, take a step back?” Eric offered, “You two always seem so happy together, talking about that and getting back to that is important, especially if you both are on the same page and can go at the same pace.”

            Heaving a large sigh, the red haired man sat back, pulling out another snickerdoodle before finally he murmured, “Yeah. Okay. He’s gonna have to work hard, though.”

           Eric chuckled, “You’re worth it, but make sure you put in some work, too, you know.” His eyes glanced over to the rose on the desk, Jack’s peace offering between the pair of them. Would he accept it? Reaching out, he let his fingers wrap around the stem, looking up to the door where Jack disappeared

            “I’m not work.”

            “Uh huh.”


End file.
